


Fathoms

by blanketed_in_stars



Series: 52 Weeks of Wolfstar [14]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1980, Alcohol, Distrust, First War with Voldemort, M/M, Marauders' Era, Post-Hogwarts, Wakes & Funerals, keeping secrets, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 02:28:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3711403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's an ocean between them, and today Remus feels like flinging himself into the deep.</p><p>The first version of this scene, from Remus's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fathoms

**Author's Note:**

> Week 14

Remus resists the urge to pound his head into the table. This week just gets better and better. Since he refrains from making a skull-shaped dent in the wood, however, he can still see the man leering at him from the front page of the _Daily Prophet._ **GREYBACK JOINS HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED** , the headline shrieks, and Remus feels sick to his stomach.

It was bad enough when they started hunting werewolves for existing, he thinks. Now they'll have a real reason. Already his trips outside the house are limited to quick errands and slightly longer sojourns into muggle towns. Not because of Sirius—and it never was, really—but out of necessity. He doesn't much fancy being spit on. Or worse.

And now those brief trips are about to become even shorter. Remus imagines Easter in this cottage and wants to cry. Maybe they'll go to the Potters' this year, although with all the new security measures, it doesn't seem likely.

The sudden knock on the door makes Remus jump, knocking over his tea. The dark liquid rolls over the newspaper and soaks Greyback's face. "Just a moment," Remus calls. With a muttered spell, he clears up the tea and dries the paper. After wiping his hands on a towel, he pads down the hall. "Who is it?"

Through the frosted glass, a dark figure is visible. "It's me."

Remus closes his eyes in relief. It's about time; there's only half an hour until they have to be there. "You'll have to be a bit more specific than that."

"Sirius Black, member of the Order of the Phoenix and accomplished wanker."

"And?"

"Er… In our third year, I snuck a live kneazle into the dormitory and kept it for half a term."

"Welcome home." Remus taps the knob with his wand and pulls the door open. "How'd you get found out? I always thought you hid it pretty well."

Sirius blinks rain out of his eyes. "Someone had milk. The thing went berserk thinking we were poisoning it, and McGonagall came to see what all the fuss was about. That was the end of it."

"Ah, well." He leans into the kiss on his cheek, and then it's over. "Catch anyone today?"

"No, but I might have caught a cold." Sirius sniffles pointedly and hangs his soaked cloak on the peg.

"There's still some Warming Solution left."

"Nah, I'll be fine, let's save it. How's the government? Still standing strong against the forces of evil?"

"More or less." Remus leads the way down the hall. As he goes, he tidies, feeling a bit like a housewife at loose ends and trying not to let it bother him. "Kingsley wanted help with information on giants, Molly needed me to send an owl to Arthur. I'm turning into a walking post office."

"Map, too," Sirius adds.

"How in Merlin's name am I a map?"

"I'd be lost without you."

Remus smiles despite the weight in the air and sits on the kitchen table while Sirius rummages through the cupboard. "I set out the last of the scones for Dumbledore when he stopped by," he says, tucking the newspaper up his sleeve before Sirius turns around.

"What did he want?"

"The usual. Checking in, asking for any news, making sure all the bases are covered."

"Speaking of covering the bases—" Sirius glances around the kitchen with his mouth full of biscuit. "Did the _Prophet_ come today?"

"No. I think the owls are forgetting where we live." Remus pulls the cuff of his sleeve down farther. "We should get going pretty soon."

Sirius swallows his mouthful. "I guess. It's at two?"

"Yeah, and then a few people want to meet up at a pub."

"Which pub?"

"Not sure. Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters." In a burst of motion, Sirius closes the pantry door and stalks into the bathroom.

Remus frowns after him for a moment, then goes to the bedroom. He slides the newspaper from his sleeve and shoves it under the mattress before sinking onto his side of the bed, shoulders slumped. The tight feeling in his chest is only getting worse. There's something about the way Sirius looks at him, he thinks, something he can't figure out, and that's not normal. They've always known each other like two halves of the same coin. Even when they argue, there's no distance. Now they've traded arguing for tiptoeing, and it's a hundred times worse.

Of course, he can't say anything, can he? This is the fifth newspaper he's hidden in a month. They all spout the same rubbish about werewolves, "half-breeds," the sort of stuff that makes Remus angry like nothing else. He can't let Sirius see it. When it comes to rage, he's got nothing on Padfoot.

Sirius comes in and pauses a moment before sitting next to him. "I'm sorry," he says into the silence, and Remus notices the space between them again. "I'm trying not to… let it get to me. You know, everything that's going on."

"I know." Remus almost covers Sirius's hand with his own. Almost. "You don't need to be sorry."

"Well, I am." Sirius hesitates, then seems to decide something and pushes off of the bed.

With an internal sigh, Remus does the same. He's only got one set of robes without holes and lately he's worn them too often for his liking. He pulls them on now, feeling the press of stiff cloth against his neck and wrists.

Sirius turns to face him from across the room. His hair is still wet from the rain outside, and it drips on his shoulders. His lips quirk up on one side when Remus moves to run his fingers through the dark strands and comb them back from his face.

"There, now you're all stylish." They're only a few inches apart. It would be easy to lean forward and kiss him, full-on, not like the rushed brush at the door. Once again, something stops him. "Are you ready?"

A huff of breath falls with the weight of a mountain, as if Sirius was waiting for the kiss, too. "No. Let's go." At the door, they don their cloaks and step outside. Remus's boots are drenched immediately, and for some reason that makes Apparition more uncomfortable.

They arrive in an open field of brown, dead grass. A crowd has gathered a few yards away from the caskets. They stand huddled close together against the chill. Remus and Sirius join James, Peter, and Lily where they wait, dressed in black robes with somber expressions.

Not a minute later, the officiator begins to speak. Remus can't say he understands a lot of what's being said. He didn't know Gideon or Fabian well at all, having never spoken more than ten words to either of them. But he feels the familiar weight settle beneath his sternum all the same. This is the fourth funeral in two months.

"…Leaving behind a grieving mother and sister," finishes the officiator, a small man with tufty hair and a slightly singsong voice. "We comfort them."

Remus watches as Molly lays a bouquet on each of the caskets. When she returns to her mother, she grips her elbow tightly, as if holding her upright. Arthur settles a comforting hand on his wife's shoulder and gathers their children more closely together. They make a veritable mob of fiery-headed figures, even in all this rain. The youngest, a month-old baby boy, wails.

The caskets burst into flame. Remus can't look away as the blaze warms his face. But then James speaks in a low voice. "Are you lot going to The Singing Jarvey with the rest?"

Peter mumbles something that Remus can't catch, and Sirius shrugs. "Maybe." He looks at Remus.

Remus isn't sure. Around them, the crowd begins to break up. There's work to do. "Are you two going?" he asks James and Lily.

"I'm not," Lily answers. "I need to sleep."

"It's lucky she'll only be an insomniac for three more months," James says. "She's a nightmare when she's tired."

Lily shoves his arm. "He's not going, either," she informs Remus. "I'm going to kill him." Then she presses her lips together, her cheeks reddening. "Sorry. It's a bit too soon, I know."

They stand in a subdued silence amidst the departing witches and wizards for a few moments. Remus turns to Sirius and finds him staring at the still-burning pyre. "Do you want to go?" Remus asks.

Sirius blinks and shakes his head, tearing his gaze from the fire. "Do you?"

Remus purses his lips. Opening a window at the cottage is nothing compared to the feeling of rain on his face. "I don't want to go home."

So that's how they end up in the Hog's Head twenty minutes later, shaking the water from their cloaks. They order two firewhiskeys at the bar. When the drinks arrive, Sirius downs his in two swallows.

"Take it easy," Remus says. He eyes the liquid in his own bottle and feels as if he's drowning in it. "It's hard to Apparate when one of us is drunk."

"I don't care," Sirius huffs, signaling for another bottle. "I don't want to take it easy. I don't want to _think."_

"Well, one of us has to." And Remus doesn't want it to be him. He's been thinking entirely too much lately. "Life can't be all funerals and baby showers. There's work to do."

"I know." Sirius's tone is dark. "We never get a break."

Once, Remus might have offered to help, but now he just remembers what happened the last time he tried. The streets of Glasgow were freezing, and he and Peter had already been combing the slums for hours trying to find the informant.

"Are you going to drink that?" Sirius asks, pulling him out of his thoughts. His hand has twitched his hand over to Remus's firewhiskey.

"Yes, don't touch it." Remus takes a sip and feels it burn. "If you want a break, you could always run off to a pet shop and get yourself a nice grooming. Padfoot's fur is bound to be getting a little shaggy by now."

"You think I should get a haircut?" Sirius tucks a few strands behind his ear.

"Not necessarily. It might be relaxing, that's all."

"Right," Sirius says with a bark-like laugh, "and next Christmas you'll buy me calming teas and bath scents."

"How'd you guess?" Remus takes a bigger swallow of his drink. This is nice, he thinks, much better than the awkward stumbling silences in the cottage. They should go out more often.

As soon as he thinks it, he wants to kick himself. It's impossible. The Death Eaters waiting in Glasgow taught him that, in the form of a bloody face and a week spent recovering from powerful stunning spells. The Ministry officials who showed up—too late, of course—were less than helpful. One look at his scars and they told him to go lick his wounds where he couldn't hurt anyone.

"Don't break the glass," Sirius cautions.

Remus looks down to find that his knuckles have gone white from gripping his bottle so tightly. He loosens his hold and switches to picking at the rough wood of the bar.

"Something bothering you?"

Before he can stop himself, Remus laughs. What isn't bothering him? Then he sees Sirius's expression. "Sorry. I'm trying not to let it get to me."

Sirius nods at the echo of their conversation in the bedroom. "I understand."

But does he really? Remus feels guilty for the thought, but he can't let it go. He remembers the article in the _Prophet_ the day after Glasgow, warning of werewolf Remus John Lupin, a danger to civilians. The Floo address for the Werewolf Capture Unit was stamped beneath his picture. And for the last four months… He grunts in disgust and finishes his firewhiskey. Here he is, thinking too much again.

"Maybe you're the one who needs a good grooming." Sirius cocks his head to one side. "Is… is there anything you want to talk about? I'm always here for you, you know."

Remus wants so badly to believe it. This could be the only way to close the distance between them. He _aches_ with wanting. "I'm just…" He sighs. "It's everything that's going on. The funerals—today, and last week, and before that. It's going to be one of us sooner or later, I'm sure of it."

"Don't talk like that, Moony." Sirius's eyes are concerned. "We're going to be all right. We're going to win the war."

"That doesn't really help," Remus says wearily. "You can't be sure."

"Well, what would help?" Sirius covers Remus's hand with his own.

"Hey."

Remus notices the man on his other side for the first time. "Sorry?" he says, turning.

The man's eyes narrow. "You look a bit familiar." The way he says it, Remus thinks he knows what's coming next. And sure enough—"You're that werewolf, aren't you?" He doesn't keep his voice down, and the pub goes quiet.

Remus feels forty pairs of eyes on him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie," the man barks. "I know what you are. This one wounded three muggles in Glasgow," he tells the other patrons. "Evaded capture by the Ministry, too. Well, not today." His hand is in his pocket.

Behind Remus, Sirius tenses, and Remus knows he's pulled out his own wand. His heart hammers against his ribs. This is too fast—he hasn't even had time to open his mouth—the man whips his hand out of his pocket, wand at the ready—

"That's enough." The barman stands with a hand on the man's shoulder, blue eyes cold. "I run a pub, not a dueling hall. Take it somewhere else."

The man twists his mouth into a leer. "Didn't you hear? He's a half-breed. A criminal."

"Maybe so," Aberforth grunts, "but you're bad for business. Get out."

From the sudden rigid line of the man's jaw, there must be a wand pressed into his back. He puts his own wand away and yanks his shoulder out from under Aberforth's hand. "Better not show your face again," he says, glaring at Remus. "Next time you might not—"

"Out," intones Aberforth, cutting off his words.

"I get it," the man snarls. He spits on Remus's face and stalks out the door.

Remus wipes his face as the crowd turns back to their drinks. "Thanks, Aberforth." Aberforth offers him another firewhiskey, but he waves it away.

"Getting more and more like that," Aberforth says, putting the bottle away. "Can't throw 'em all out, or I wouldn't have any customers."

"Don't worry about it," Remus sighs. "It's the way things are." Suddenly he's overwhelmed with exhaustion, although the day hasn't been very exciting outside of the past three minutes. He turns to Sirius. "I'm tired."

"You want to go home?"

It's the last thing he wants, but anything's better than here, where he's the object of public outrage. And some of the patrons are still casting rather unsettling looks in his direction. "Yeah. Sorry."

"It's fine." Sirius finishes the last drops of his firewhiskey and they leave. The rain is coming down harder than ever. "It's a shame all that happened. I know how much you like getting out of the house," Sirius says, glancing up the street with his hand in his pocket.

Remus shrugs. He knows Sirius is looking for the man from the bar, daring him to show his face. "Don't hex anyone," he cautions, seeing the dark look Sirius gives a cloaked figure walking nearby.

"I won't," Sirius promises. "If I ever see that idiot again, I'll curse him." He smiles wryly at Remus's expression. "Joking. Although," he adds, "you don't need to worry about that 'next time' he was threatening you with."

"Don't I? If it's not him, it'll be someone else."

"Whoever it is—whenever—I'll be there." Sirius takes Remus's hand. "Loyal guard dog, at your service."

Remus laughs, feeling a twinge in his gut. They're holding hands for once, he reminds himself. He should be happy. But it's only for Apparition, and as he spins into thin air, he can't help noticing that Sirius's smile doesn't reach his eyes.


End file.
